


easy to fall, easy to break

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, it'll have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jana Morell sees Stiles Stilinski once a week. Stiles calls it a standing date, and Jana calls it trying to understand a completely misunderstood student. </i>
</p>
<p>The guidance counselor wants Stiles to talk. </p>
<p>Derek just wants Stiles to shut up, but he can't seem to stop talking to <i>him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So there are a few things about this fic, here. First of all, my lovely beta, MirajaneScarlet and I came up with the idea together, and I was thrilled to write it because I thought that it'd be a great challenge. She also came up with the great summary, so thank her for that. :)
> 
> Second of all, these chapters will be alternating POV's between Ms. Morell and Stiles. I gave Ms. Morell a first name for the purpose of this fic because she doesn't appear to have one yet. 
> 
> So it's also a WIP of course, and chapters will come as fast as I can get them out. Which... might not be so fast sometimes. I'll post one when I have another one in editing. :) 
> 
> Finally, if you like it, please leave feedback. And if you're interested: [this](http://korynnvictoria.tumblr.com/) is my tumblr. I always follow back.
> 
> **Disclaimer:** The title of this story is not mine. They're lyrics that belong to Demi Lovato's song, Lightweight. Which I encourage a listen to.

Jana Morell sees Stiles Stilinski once a week. Stiles calls it a standing date, and Jana calls it trying to understand a completely misunderstood student who gets up in the middle of classes and walks around, who writes completely off-topic essays on their finals, and who just happen to be dealing with werewolves when they’re not in school. She likes to think she’s helping.

Which is a little hard when Stiles shuts her down at every left turn. 

“Ms. Morell,” he nods, fidgeting in the doorway. 

“Stiles,” Jana nods. Stiles looks nervous, just like he always does. At first, Jana thought Stiles looking nervous meant he was ready to _talk._ It turns out being nervous is just another reason to bring out the Stiles Stilinski Charm. AKA, sarcasm. “Have a seat,” she tells Stiles, and gestures him further into the room. The guidance office is bright and hopefully comfortable, giving people a homey feel. Jana threw out the crappy plastic chairs and bought comfortable, cushioned seats with her first paycheck from Beacon Hills High and dared the principle to argue with her just by giving him a raised eyebrow. Stiles sinks down onto one and claps his hands against his knees, the right one of which he’s bouncing up and down rapidly. 

“Everything alright?” Jana asks him, offering a kind smile.

Stiles stops bouncing his knee. “Oh, everything is just great,” he blurts out, “couldn’t be better. Having the time of my life. Who doesn’t want to hear that a guidance counselor thinks you’re on your way to a possible psychotic break? I mean,” Stiles breaks off, swallowing, “that’s fantastic.”

“I didn’t say I thought you were on your way to a psychotic break, Stiles,” Jana says patiently. “I said I think you would benefit from talking to someone, and the school and your doctor agreed.”

“My doctor is _ninety,_ say anything quietly enough and he’ll agree with it just because he can’t _hear_ what you said,” Stiles spits out, and then almost looks apologetic. 

This is the thing, Jana thinks. Stiles has this problem of saying things before he thinks, but nearly always regretting saying them once they’re out. Sarcasm is his defense, Jana knows, but he also feels immensely bad about using it on innocent people; people concerned about his wellbeing, for instance. 

“So last time,” Jana says, changing the subject before Stiles can, “we tried talking about the attack in the school when you were here. In the middle of the night.”

“It wasn’t the middle of the night,” Stiles mumbles, staring down at his hands.

“But you _were_ here and the doors _had_ been locked,” Jana looks at him. Stiles flushes and scratches at the back of his neck.

“We were trying to play a prank,” he murmurs. 

Jana doesn’t say anything for a while. “Let’s talk about Scott this time. He’s your best friend, right?”

Stiles shrugs, “Insofar as he’s been here since the sixth grade and we were inseparable, yes,” Stiles says. 

“Were?” Jana latches on like a leech. She knows this, but it’s something that spikes up on her radar and makes her curious. Why _were_ they inseparable, and now they’re not? 

Stiles rolls his eyes, “We still are,” he snaps. 

“But you said ‘were,’” Jana points out fairly.

“Well I meant _are,_ ” he says, and looks downright miserable. 

“Scott had a girlfriend,” Jana says slowly, “did that cause trouble? Separate you? Not necessarily jealousy but more… third wheel feelings?”

“I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t feel like the third wheel. I was happy for Scott,” Stiles says stubbornly. 

“And when Scott and his girlfriend broke up… did you feel relieved?”

“I didn’t feel relieved,” Stiles snarls, “I felt bad for him, I felt like it sucked, I felt gu–” Stiles cuts himself off but Jana hears it anyways. Hears the _guilty,_ even though it’s unspoken. She lets it hang in the air for a moment. 

Finally she says, “You felt guilty? Was it your fault that Scott and his girlfriend broke up.”

“Everything’s my fault,” Stiles says, but doesn’t elaborate. Jana is always proud when she can get things out of Stiles, but there’s never enough, and it’s usually after she’s riled him up enough that he doesn’t think about what he’s saying in the heat of the moment, before he catches on and stops talking, period. Jana can already see the wall going up for the rest of today’s session. She taps her pencil against the desk for a moment. 

“Stiles, do you know why I fought so hard for these sessions?”

Stiles shakes his head. “I fought for them because I feel like no one ever sees you,” Jana says slowly. Stiles closes his eyes and swallows. “I heard you, Stiles, loud and clear during our first session. You’re _drowning_ and no one can help you. At least, that’s what you think,” Jana smiles, “I think you have a lot of people there to help you. You’re just not willing to accept it.”

“I don’t need help,” he says stubbornly.

“Your teachers say you’re not as talkative as you used to be,” Jana counters. 

“Maybe I just know they don’t listen when I talk, and they get angry with me,” Stiles retorts. 

“Or maybe you’re too caught up in your own thoughts. Worried about something,” Jana counters again. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just clicks his teeth and tightens his jaw, arms crossing over his chest. 

“I can help, Stiles. You just won’t let me,” she says quietly. 

“I don’t need _help,_ ” Stiles says angrily. Jana looks back down at her notes. Stiles’ dad, when Jana had spoken to him, had said things. Things like how Stiles is angrier these days. How he’s snappier and moodier and he doesn’t want to talk to the Sheriff about things as much as he used to. About how he doesn’t know what’s been going on, because Stiles has been so secretive lately, and it’s tearing their relationship apart. 

Jana knows the secret. She knows why Stiles has been so secretive, and she knows why Stiles is so _angry_ all the time. Stiles feels guilty. What he feels guilty about, Jana isn’t entirely sure. He’s not responsible for the wolves of Beacon Hills. He didn’t _turn_ them, or call hunters in to _kill_ them. He just got caught up in a situation he isn’t sure how to deal with. 

The problem is that Stiles doesn’t know that Jana knows, therefore he’s not willing to talk. The problem is that Stiles is currently enjoying bearing that load of guilt all too much. He’s playing the martyr, he’s punishing himself so no one else has to. Jana doesn’t know how to get the boy who’s always talking to actually _talk,_ instead of just throw words at people. 

It’s a problem she’s determined to fix. 

For now, though, she knows Stiles is done talking for the day. “I guess we’re done here,” Jana sighs. She looks at the clock. Fifteen minutes have passed. The most amount of time Stiles has spent in her office yet, even though he’s slotted in on her date book for an hour. Wishful thinking, she guesses.

Stiles looks relieved. “I’ll see you next week, though,” Jana adds.

“Sure, Ms. Morell,” Stiles mumbles, and grabs his backpack and trips and stumbles his gangly teenage body out of the room. 

Jana knows the secret, the _big_ one, but she gets the feeling she’s still missing out on so much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I used to be your friend, too,” the Sheriff says quietly, “not just your dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should remind everyone it's alternating POV's between Ms. Morell and Stiles, and this is Stiles' chapter.   
> I'm avoiding confusion. :)
> 
> In other news, thanks to my beautiful wonderful beta, MirajaneScarlet, because this chapter was TERRIBLE before she came in and pulled out parts and helped me put in new, better, and improved parts.   
> Because man. It's really hard to write Derek sometimes. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!

Stiles slams through the front door of his house, kicking his shoes off on the mat behind the door, and skips up the stairs, two at a time. He hits his bedroom and bursts through the door, planning to be completely unsurprised if Derek is there. Bracing himself for Derek’s menacing glare. But Derek isn’t there, and Stiles sighs out a breath of relief. He turns his laptop on and starts pulling books out of his bag. Summer break wasn’t long enough, and now the leaves are turning colors again, and homework is filling up. 

Stiles is just hitting the play button on his music when there’s a creak. He turns around just in time to see the window sliding open and Derek crawling through gracefully. Stiles blows out a sigh and turns back to his homework. “No,” he says. 

Derek says, “Don’t start. Just look it up for me.”

“I’m busy,” Stiles snaps, and he whirls around to face Derek, who is wearing that very same stoic face with his eyes just starting to turn crimson. “I don’t have time to be your research-booty-call. Haven’t you heard of the library? Public access to computers, you know.”

“Stiles,” Derek growls. 

“Derek,” he snaps back. “I’ve had a very long, trying day, and now I want to do my homework and not think about all the shit happening around me.”

Before he blinks, Derek is there, hovering over him, gripping his t-shirt tightly as he grits his teeth and says, “Just look this up for me, Stiles, and you won’t be thinking about how much _pain_ you’re in.” He slams a scrap of paper down on the table. Stiles looks down and Derek has dug his claws into the wood of his desk a little, a sure sign of losing control. 

Stiles frowns. Derek has always been so _good_ at keeping control, it’s one of the things he’s bragged constantly about to his pack members. He wonders why suddenly Derek’s control seems to be slipping so easily. 

“You’ve gotten a little more violent. And you’re not keeping very good control,” Stiles swallows. Derek’s eyes flash. “It’s okay, if you’re grumpy, or whatever, I just – I’m really busy,” he says quietly. Derek closes his eyes and when he opens them they’ve returned back to their normal color. He breathes out, and shakes his head. 

“Just – do it,” he says, and when Stiles looks down, the scrap of paper is asking him to look up dynamics in alpha packs, and Stiles knows that Derek is still worried, regardless of the fact that they’ve handled this. He’s worried more will always come, but he doesn’t want to admit it. Stiles won’t lie to himself, he’s worried more packs, more hunters are always coming for them, too, and it scares him. Could they really take any more losses?

Stiles chews on his bottom lip. “You know this has been happening more and more in the past few months. I’d hate to think you’re not just using me for my research skills; that you want to actually see my smiling face.”

Derek opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he just grits his teeth. 

“But I guess I’m not really smiling all that much anymore. That’s what my guidance counselor says.” Stiles replies, pulling his physics and trig books out of his bag. “I had to talk to Ms. Morell again today, and I hate talking to her. She thinks she’s going to like, get inside my head or something. Not that that’s something she wants to do, if she wants to remain unscarred for life. Aaaaand, I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” 

“She talks to you?” Derek demands, eyes turning red. “About what?”

Stiles waves his hand back and forth, and shrugs, “Calm down, Derek. It’s not like I’d ever tell her anything. It doesn’t matter though. She keeps prying. She’s sure I’m… depressed, I guess,” he blinks at the wall behind the desk and blows out a sigh. 

Derek sighs, like he knows Stiles isn’t going to shut up. 

Stiles spins his chair around to face Derek again. “Not that that’s an unreasonable assumption. I mean, are you angrier than usual? Is your temper shorter than it usually is? The answer to _those_ questions are yes, and the reasons are obvious too. We’re all just frustrated.” 

Derek glares at him and snorts. 

==

Stiles gets his homework and the research for Derek finished in pretty much record time. He sits at the dinner table and eats with his father in an awkward silence that neither of them are used to. It used to be that Stiles talked and talked and talked; he rambled endlessly about what happened at school that day, about his father’s caloric intake, begging his dad for new information on his latest cases. Now, they sit and stare at their respective plates, scraping their forks over empty plates, in a hurry to get away. 

The Sheriff has a different idea tonight, though. “Ms. Morell called, today,” he says. “Your guidance counselor?”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat. “Yeah?” he asks, shoveling pasta onto his fork and then stuffing it in his mouth so he can’t say more. 

“She said you haven’t made any progress.” 

Stiles keeps his eyes on his plate. He swallows, “Progress with what?” he asks, scraping his fork against the plate, the loud screeching noise echoing in the dining room. 

“Stiles,” he dad says quietly. “Why don’t you just talk to her? If you can’t talk to me – I get it. Okay, I get it. You’re too cool and adult to bring your problems to me –” 

“I never said that,” Stiles says loudly, “I never said that. There are just things you wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m sure every kid has said the same thing to his parents,” his dad says dryly. 

“Well it’s never been truer than when I say it,” Stiles snaps, standing up and grabbing both their empty plates. “And I don’t _want_ to talk about anything. If I wanted to talk about things to anyone, I’d talk to my _friends._ ” 

Stiles knows this dig hurts, because he _sees_ his dad flinch, and he feels another pang inside of him; the weight of more guilt being added, he thinks. 

“I used to be your friend, too,” the Sheriff says quietly, “not just your dad.”

“Well – things change,” Stiles says, and hurries out of the room, into the kitchen to finish up the dishes. He flinches himself when he hears the clink of a glass and the pop of the cap coming off the whiskey bottle sitting on the sideboard table in the dining room. There’s silence and then the glass clinks, and Stiles knows his dad is drinking more. 

He hates himself just that much more. 

==

“Hey, so, here’s your research,” Stiles says as Derek comes through the window. He tosses the manila folder to Derek gently, and Derek catches it, looking down at Stiles. “I don’t know why you insisted on having it tonight. It’s just stuff we already knew, and have used.” Stiles shrugs.

“I wanted to see if you could find anything new,” Derek says through gritted teeth, gripping the folder tightly. 

“There’s no need to get snappy,” Stiles says, holding his hands up. “I looked. There’s nothing new about the alpha packs that I could find – nothing we haven’t already seen, anyways.” 

Derek sits down on Stiles’ bed, and flips through the papers. “Maybe I just want to be sure,” he says quietly. 

“Sure of what?” Stiles asks, just as quietly, because he doesn't want Derek to stop talking. 

“That they can’t come back.” Derek clears his throat. 

Stiles picks at the hem of his shirt and stares down at the floor. “You’re not the only one who has lost things, you know. I’m not all that happy with this myself,” he says.

“Why?” Derek asks, snapping his head up. 

Stiles smiles grimly. “There are a lot of reasons, Derek. Being kidnapped, pretending to hate my dad and not talking to him – pick one and we’ll start there.”

Derek huffs. “I have to go,” he says. He gets up off the bed and goes over to the window. He pauses like he wants to say something, and Stiles gets the feeling that Derek always has things on his mind; things he wants to say to people, things that deal with emotions he hasn’t dealt with in a long time. But he doesn’t say them to Stiles, not right then, and Stiles doesn’t expect him to. Instead Derek just closes his mouth and nods once in Stiles’ direction, before disappearing out the window. 

Stiles doesn’t think he’s really talked about anything _too_ important, not with Derek Hale, of all people, but when he crawls into bed that night, he still feels a little lighter and sleeps a little easier anyways.


End file.
